This Way to Heaven

by Barbara Cartland

  Most aristocratic young ladies of his acquaintance would have taken to their beds for a fortnight after such an ordeal as Miss Whitfield had suffered.

  But it was so vital that he finished the work he had intended to undertake when in London on all the Foreign Office papers.

  As soon as the pass through the hills was cleared, he would have to leave on his difficult secret mission.

  “You will excuse me if I do not accompany you?”

  Jasmina found herself going red.

  Goodness, surely he had not thought that she was angling for his attention?

  Really, he was the most difficult of men.

  One moment he would be laughing with her, his eyes warm and friendly, and next the guard would come down over his face and he became a different person.

  “I would not dream of imposing myself, my Lord,” she said quietly, lifting her chin and meeting his gaze with a flash of blue eyes. “I shall explore where I can, perhaps visit the stables and take a look at your horses.

  “And I can see that the lake over there is frozen. I have brought my skates with me and so I shall take a little gentle exercise on the ice. I can assure you that I have no intention of getting in your way. Good day!”

  She turned to go and then started in surprise as his hand shot out to hold her arm.

  “You must do no such thing!”

  “I must beg your pardon, my Lord, but surely you can have no objection to my skating? I am not asking you to join me in what you could consider a frivolous pastime.”

  The Earl’s face grew overcast with annoyance.

  “The lake might not be completely frozen over. It is very deep in the middle and people have been known to fall through the ice.”

  Jasmina tossed her head, her bright curls dancing.

  “I am not a complete fool, my Lord. I come from Missouri, an American State, where it is far colder than this every winter.

  “I am quite aware that I have to test the ice before I skate on it. Or do you believe that women do not have the same amount of common sense that men have?”

  The Earl was losing his temper.

  He was becoming convinced that the main problem with women was that their species were so over-headstrong that they could not recognise danger when it was right in front of them!

  This young Miss Winfield had refused to dismount from that huge rogue horse when he had asked her and look where that disobedience had led her.

  He could remember so well another young woman who had also refused to take his advice.

  He could see in his mind the horse being forced to jump over a fence that was far too high, the crashing fall, the limp body of his wife on the muddy ground, the end of all the hopes for Somerton.

  Before he could think what he was saying, he heard himself speaking,

  “I have no opinion on your common sense one way or the other, Miss Winfield, but maybe your manners could be questioned! I am particularly asking you not to skate on the lake today. Please accept my ruling on this matter.”

  Angrily Jasmina pulled her arm away sharply from his grasp.

  How dare he call her ill-mannered?

  “My Lord, I apologise if I have given you offence in any way. I am, of course, a visitor in your castle and country and will abide by all your rules. But I can tell you now that if you were a visitor in my own home, I would not question your behaviour in such a rude fashion. Now if you will excuse me, I find the air out here – unbreathable!”

  Her voice broke at the last word, but she refused to show him that there were tears burning in her eyes.

  She spun on her heel and marched back inside the castle, shaking with anger.

  *

  A mile from the vast castle standing on top of its hill, the pretty little village of Somerton lay in a fold of the ground under a thick blanket of snow.

  A few rooks circled lazily above the tall elm trees and the columns of grey smoke from the cottage chimneys rose straight into the freezing air.

  A few children, laughing and shouting because the village school was closed for the day, were busy having a snowball fight and several housewives were hard at work, brushing the snow from their paths and steps, worrying about the water freezing in the outside pumps.

  The sign outside The Golden Lion hung silent with no wind to make it squeak as usual.

  Outside the temperature was dropping fast again, but inside there was a roaring blaze in the immense fireplace and the air was thick with smoke and the smell of beer and roast beef.

  George Radford sat in his usual corner, enjoying a pint of ale and a vast meat pasty.

  When he had returned home from the castle, he discovered that the heavy snow had brought down part of the chimney of his old farmhouse and until he could mend it, he was unable to cook on his range.

  Mary had made him a big bacon sandwich when he had taken the American lady’s luggage up to the castle, but that had been hours ago.

  George now gazed into the fire and found himself wondering what it would be like to go home, cold, wet and tired to find Mary there, waiting for him with a cooked meal on the table and a warm loving smile.

  He shook his dark red head and sipped his beer.

  ‘No good dreamin’ about such things, you fool,’ he muttered to himself. ‘You don’t earn nearly enough from the farm to take a wife. Mary won’t leave the castle to live in the farm and to be fair, it just ain’t suitable for a lass and a family.’

  George had left school when he was only fourteen to join his father working the land, but although he was not well educated, he knew in his heart of hearts that selling his land to the Earl of Somerton was the sensible thing to do.

  But many centuries of independent Yorkshire spirit rebelled in him at the thought.

  This was his land. He should hold it and pass it on to his sons just like the old Earl had done with his great estate.

  “Mr. Radford – may I have the pleasure of buying you a drink?”

  George looked up, startled.

  A tall thin man stood in front of him.

  George could scarcely see his face under his black, broad-brimmed hat, but he could tell that the man sported a short dark beard and moustache.

  His clothes were expensive, but the cut and colour told George that they had not been bought in England and that was a fact. And although the man spoke well, there was a trace of a foreign accent in his words.

  George felt a spurt of suspicion.

  This was right odd. How did the stranger know his name?

  “No, thank you, sir. I’m just off home.”

  “Surely you have time for one more pint of the best bitter The Golden Lion can provide? Or perhaps a tot of spirits to keep out the cold? Come, I insist. I believe that I have a business proposition that will interest you.”

  “Are you a farmer, sir? Interested in buying some turnips, perhaps?”

  The stranger laughed heartily, slapping his leather riding gloves against his palm.

  “Turnips? No. I have another business altogether in mind. Listen to me, I have been told that you know a great deal about Somerton Castle. I appreciate that you are a busy man, Mr. Radford, but I would make it worth your while if you would sit and talk to me all about that great establishment.”

  He took a gold sovereign from his pocket and spun it on the table.

  “You see, Mr Radford, I, too, am a busy man. I am a student of architecture. I can study the outside of the castle, of course, but I would so like to know much more about the inside of that great building.

  “For example, which rooms are where, how many doors lead from the main hall. Small things that I need to complete a paper I am writing for a Historical Society.”

  George ignored the gold piece, stood up abruptly, drained his tankard and placed it firmly on the table.

  “Why don’t you go up to the castle and ask to see round it, then? I’m sure that the Earl would be only too pleased to ’elp, if it’s for some Society, as you say.”

  “Oh, I w
ould certainly not wish to bother the Earl or his staff. Oh, no.”

  George silently pushed past the table, pulling on his coat and jamming his cap down over his ears.

  He might well be in conflict with the Earl, but that was his business. There was no way he was going to talk about Somerton Castle to anyone, least of all some foreign outsider.

  “I cannot help you, sir, and I’ll bid you good day!” he said and strode out of the inn, letting a cloud of cold air rush into the muggy room.

  The bearded man looked furious and turned to rap on the bar with the gold sovereign.

  He ordered a large brandy and was standing sipping it, when the door opened again and Pardew, who had until that very morning been the butler at the castle, came in, his face like thunder.

  “You don’t look happy, Mr. Pardew,” the landlord called to him, reaching for a glass. “Look as if you’ve lost a shilling and found sixpence. What’s up?”

  “I’ve been given my marching orders, that’s what,” he snarled. “By that appalling young whipper-snapper who calls himself the Earl of Somerton.

  “Oh, it’s all right for the high and mighty Lords and Ladies to drink themselves stupid, but us poor fools who work for them aren’t even allowed to have a quick sip of brandy to keep body and soul together.

  “It’s a pity we never had the revolution here like they did in France!”

  The foreign stranger looked up, his eyes narrowing, as he pulled another sovereign from his waistcoat pocket.

  “Sir, I am a stranger to these parts, but have quite a knowledge of revolutions in different countries. May I buy you a drink and perhaps hear your story?” he enquired.

  The landlord watched uneasily as the man ordered two double brandies and led Pardew to a distant corner of the inn.

  He harboured the oddest feeling that whoever this foreigner was, he was up to no good.

  Outside The Golden Lion, George Radford paused and pulled the collar of his coat tighter round his neck.

  The wind was still bitterly cold, freezing the snow as it lay and George trudged along the path that had been cleared around the inn and headed for the stabling at the back where he had left his pony.

  It was time for him to return to his farm.

  Not that there was much he could do there in this weather except make sure the stock were cared for, but stubbornly he would keep trying.

  In the stable yard a young lad was walking a large black horse round and round keeping him warm.

  “That be a good-lookin’ animal you’ve got there, young Joe,” observed George, running his hand down the animal’s neck, admiring the glossy coat and the fine arch of his head.

  The horse danced away skittishly, fretting at the bit in his mouth and George reckoned he would be a devil to ride.

  “Aye, belongs to a foreign gent just gone into the inn,” replied Joe, controlling the horse, then glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, he pulled something out from his pocket and showed George a half sovereign.

  “Look at what he did give to me to keep his horse exercised!”

  “Your lucky day, lad!”

  George stared at the horse.

  It was odd.

  The saddle seemed far too lightweight for a man. It was made from fine pale leather, more suitable for a lady.

  As Joe started to walk on with the restless animal, George reached up almost automatically to straighten the saddlecloth that had become twisted underneath the horse’s girth.

  He felt a shiver run down his spine.

  The saddlecloth was a deep dark blue and there in the left corner was a heavy gold embroidered crest.

  And George was in no doubt who owned that proud mark.

  This horse was the property of the Duke of Harley!

  So why on earth was it being ridden by a stranger to the valley who possessed so much money to throw around that he could afford to give a stable lad ten whole shillings?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jasmina spent the rest of the morning wandering through the castle investigating chilly rooms. Some had been locked and left to the dust and spiders, but in others she could tell that the servants had made at least some attempt to keep up the appearances of a great house.

  She did not envy Mary’s job here.

  It must be so difficult to motivate the staff when the Master of the house and estate obviously did not care.

  To her amazement Jasmina found a vast ballroom, its mirrors covered in white sheets, its once shining parquet floor dull and unpolished.

  On the third storey she discovered what must once have been the nurseries and the schoolroom.

  The bars on the windows and the quaint little pictures on the walls of dogs, horses and toy soldiers left her in no doubt of its original purpose.

  She found herself smiling – this was where the Earl had spent his childhood.

  There were even small pencil marks on the side of the door to show where a little boy had measured his height every year.

  He had sat at one of the desks with inky fingers and untidy hair looking out over the lake towards the moors, probably longing to be outside riding his pony or running through the woods, climbing trees, swimming in the lake and having adventures.

  Surely never in his wildest dreams would the Earl have imagined that when the castle became his, he would order it to be closed up and neglected in this fashion?

  The whole place just seemed to be sleeping, locked away from the real world.

  ‘It’s like a modern-day Sleeping Beauty, except his Lordship is no beauty! But – ’ and she now sighed deeply ‘ – there is just no denying the fact that he is an extremely handsome man!’

  She could see so clearly in her mind’s eye the dark brown eyes that could command with a glance, the way he impatiently pushed back the black hair that flopped across his forehead when he least expected it.

  Jasmina was quite sure that he was a man of great strength of character.

  A leader of men.

  There was far too much natural confidence in his bearing for him to be anything else.

  So the reason for his withdrawal from Society must have been great indeed.

  ‘He must have loved his young wife to the point of distraction,’ mused Jasmina, running her finger along the dusty mantelpiece. ‘It seems to me that he has been driven almost mad by her death.’

  She was not certain as to why this revelation made her feel so unhappy, but it did.

  She returned listlessly to her bedroom, restless and unable to settle down to anything. She did not want to read or even play the piano.

  In her luggage there was a tapestry bag containing the embroidery she had been working on, but having taken it out she threw it to one side after a few stitches.

  She needed exercise, but it was really far too cold to just walk in the snowy grounds.

  ‘Goodness, Jasmina Winfield, you are turning into a terrified little woman,’ she scolded herself. ‘You are a free American with a mind of her own!

  ‘You know very well that what you want to do is skate on the lake. It isn’t going to do any harm to anyone if you spend just five minutes getting some exercise. You know you will be very careful and not come to any harm. I expect the Earl is shut inside his gloomy study being sad, but there is no reason for you to follow his mood!’

  With these brisk words she found her skates in the bottom of her trunk and hurried back downstairs.

  With mounting excitement and trepidation, Jasmina made her way from the castle terrace, down a short flight of steep icy steps, through a border of old willow trees and down to the lake.

  It stretched out straight in front of her glimmering grey under the heavy sky. Smooth sheets of ice extended in every direction clear across to the far side.

  Jasmina brushed the snow off a wooden bench, sat down and changed her sturdy walking shoes for her heavy skating boots.

  The brown leather was stiff and unyielding under her cold fingers, but eventually she managed to lace up the sk
ates that had last touched ice so many thousands of miles away.

  She shivered as the wind gusted across the lake and she knew that only a few minutes of skating would warm her up and bring a healthy glow to her cheeks.

  But still she hesitated.

  Had she really promised the Earl this morning that she would not venture out onto the lake?

  No, on reflection she rather thought that she had said she would ‘abide by his rules’.

  Was that not the same thing as promising?

  She bit her lip and clapped her cold hands together. She was far too honourable a girl to ever break her promise, but, oh, she did so want to skate!

  Would it really matter, just this once, when the Earl would not even know?

  ‘Jasmina Winfield, you know very well how much it would matter,’ she murmured to herself and sighed.

  No, she would not do it.

  She had as good as promised and there was no way she would ever want the Earl of Somerton to believe that an American girl could not keep her word.

  She decided she would sit by the lake for five more minutes and then go indoors to get changed.

  It would be time for lunch very soon. Then perhaps reading a good book by a roaring fire would not seem such a bad way to spend such a miserable afternoon.

  Just then a movement on the ice caught her eye.

  There was the flash of a scarlet hood as if someone was sliding across the iced lake, not skating, but running and sliding like a child.

  Jasmina peered harder and realised that the muffled shape was quite small and, from the long skirt, it was a girl.

  Perhaps she was a child from the village sent up to the castle with a message and now hurrying to get home for her midday meal?

  Whoever it was she was very obviously enjoying herself.

  But as Jasmina watched, disaster struck.

  The child seemed to trip up – perhaps her foot had caught onto a half submerged log – and she fell headlong onto the ice.

  Jasmina watched anxiously, but the figure lay very still, right in the middle of the lake where she knew the ice would be at its thinnest.

  “Hello, over there! Are you all right?” she called, but there was no reply.